


Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's

by leeraiii



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: And a little bit of angst, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Episode 40 spoilers, Episode: e040 The Deft Bowman, M/M, also Carlos is a big adorable goof, teeth-rotting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeraiii/pseuds/leeraiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bull's eyes and targets,<br/>Say the bells of St. Margret's.</p><p>.....</p><p>If StrexCorp wants you to keep broadcasting the way they want you to, they could always just keep the bright red target directly trained to the middle of Carlos’ forehead, poke you in the ribs and cheerfully yell ‘Red Dots on what you love!’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's

**Author's Note:**

> I am extremely sorry for the poor grammar. All of the mistakes are mine as I do not have a beta. But please do enjoy! This was a pain to write but I enjoyed writing it nonetheless! :)

Your name is Cecil Palmer and you are about to run into a streetlight with how hard you are currently flooring the gas of your car. Frankly, however, you can't find it within yourself to give a damn right now. And as if to drive your point home, you run another red light despite not being in possession of stop sign immunity. You can worry about the Secret Police and the piles upon piles of paperwork waiting for you later. Right now, all you want to do is make sure the scientist currently in your apartment _is_ still in your apartment.

  _Intact._

The rational part of your brain is telling you to slow down, you’re being a big idiot. Of course, he's going to be okay! If StrexCorp is smart (and you know they are), then they would have to keep him safe and alive to keep you in line, to make sure you don't start getting ideas, least of all start acting out on them.

Nevertheless, you press on the horns of your car at the slow moving vehicle before you, agitated and nerves frayed beyond belief.

You knew it would come to this. Heck, you were surprised (but very, very relieved) that they hadn't done this the very second you started broadcasting hidden messages in several segments of your show. They tried different tactics instead. Like shutting down your show, gradually taking over your town (your beloved beautiful town you would bend over backwards to protect), selling you off on an auction without your knowledge and then staging an assassination attempt by deadly oranges that you had to fend off by clobbering a pseudo-John Peters over the head with your smartphone.

You thought they wouldn't (couldn't!) get any more creative than that.

_"He’s always looking into the scientific mysteries of Night Vale. He even broke the story, as you reporters might say, of the trans-dimensional oranges our farmers had developed."_

Now they are going for the classic (and truthfully the most effective) way of using the ones you love to keep you in place, dangling the possibilities of what they could very easily do to them over your head like a noose.

_"Well, it sure was a good thing he was looking into our oranges, or we could have harmed a lot of people on our way to making a ton of money! So very much money. What’s a few lives? So much money! He’s a good scientist you have there. What’s his name again?"_

_"Ummmm…..Carlos?"_

And now they're wrapping that noose around your neck and in any minute now they could open the panel beneath your feet.

_"Right. That’s right. Carlos. Okay. Good talking to you! Gotta go. Bye!"_

The noose is _tight_.

When your apartment comes into view, it takes you everything you have not to come flying out of your car. You park haphazardly (you don't care, let Steve Carlsberg rant) and in 3 seconds you are noisily clambering up the three flights of creaky termite-infested stairs it takes to get you to your floor.

You burst through your apartment door like a bat out of hell.

The silence that greets you chills you to the bone and only because it is not what you were expecting. You do not know what it is you _were_ expecting, but it isn’t this ringing, foreboding silence. It was not supposed to be silent. Usually, by now, Carlos would be puttering about the kitchen, there would be the sound of a TV on, or of the shower going.

For one long agonizing minute you stand there, looking for all the world like you stumbled into an unfamiliar apartment completely by mistake. And for that minute, it might as well had not been yours.

For the past few months, Carlos has been a permanent fixture in an apartment you’ve been living in alone for many years before that, and it was as if he genuinely belonged there. Scuttled into your life like a long lost duckling into its family’s nest home after a long cold winter.

Now, however, it is dark when there should at least be light in the kitchen. You hastily glance at your wristwatch and yes, Carlos should have been here half an hour ago.

You slowly enter your room, treading as if it had been filled by landmines. Maybe, you think as you glance at the rumpled afghan in your couch where Carlos had curled up in this morning working late on a program, maybe he was held up by some complicated experiment at the lab, Cecil. No need to prematurely turn every hair on your head gray!

But he would have sent a text or would have at least called to let you know he would be late! Your mind counters as you round on your bedroom.  Carlos had gotten a lot better at calling and texting and generally letting you know he had not been eaten, absorbed, maimed, killed or abducted by Night Vale Anomaly no. i++.

A quick glance at your phone lets you know that you had no unread messages from Carlos. The last one had been from before the broadcast, informing you he was going to cook tonight.

So where was he?

Surely, Carlos was alright? They couldn't have taken him away, right? You think as you throw open the bathroom door. If StrexCorp wants you to keep broadcasting the way they want you to, they should just keep the bright red target trained directly to the middle of Carlos’ forehead, constantly poke you in the ribs and cheerfully (mockingly) yell ‘Red Dots on what you love!’ 

A few minutes later, your apartment is a mess and there is not a room unexplored and just as you are contemplating rushing to Carlos’ lab or calling one of his colleagues the living room door opens and in walks Carlos carrying a brown paper bag full of groceries and inexplicably covered in white goo.

You watch him from your perch on the couch disbelievingly as he pinches the bridge of his nose in a long-suffering manner, leaning against the wooden door for one brief second before opening his eyes. His breath catches as he observes the carnage that you caused and your heart skips a beat when the first thing out of his mouth is:

“Cecil? Oh my god, Cecil!”

Soon there are arms wrapped around your shoulders and a warm body sidles beside yours. You feel warm, calloused but slender hands drift up on your face and then your vision clears to the very pleasing countenance of a very, very worried scientist.

Who is covered in goo but not everything can be perfect now, can it?

“Are you alright?” he asks as he fusses with you, looking for nonexistent injuries. “You don’t seem hurt. Is it the Feelings Delivery Services again? I swear I applied for unsubscription a dozen of times but-“

He babbles and you continue to stare transfixed because yes, you do know Carlos has a severe case of word vomit when distraught, frazzled or excited. This is definitely Carlos who is patting you down to see if you had been hurt as he continues to rave, his glasses knocked askew on his face, distressed— clearly, but so very much alive.

“Please say something,” he says, wide brown eyes quickly scanning your face for any form of reaction to his words. 

Words don’t come to you, however, but your hands do shake so Carlos takes those instead and rubs them against his and that is enough to trigger everything to come spilling forth. You bodily lift him from your side and unto your lap, ignoring the surprised squeak that pushes passed his lips, and you crush him to yourself, shaking.

 _“Oh, god.”_ You breathe, burying your head against his chest as he straddles your thighs to accommodate the both of you, resting his knees on either side of your thin hips. He carefully wraps his arms around your head, making reassuring noises as his grip tightens momentarily.

“No, it’s just Carlos.” He says, carding his hands through your thick curly mop of hair.

That gets a chuckle out of you but it is choked and wretched. “Well, thank the **_Brown Stone Spire_** for that.”

“Oh, Cecil.” Carlos says as he withdraws, holding you as far as he can without falling off your lap. “What happened? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this agitated before.” He pauses.  “Well, excluding that one time with the cassettes,” he amends.

“Hmm,” you hum, surreptitiously assessing the long line of Carlos’ body, but aside from the goo, he looks unharmed. “Where have you been? You’re covered in... stuff.”

Carlos blinks and looks down on himself. “Ugh, I’m sorry about your pants.”

“Carlos.”

“And your shirt, oh my god, is that new?”

“Carlos, please.”

“I can replace it, if you like. Because that color looks good on you, matches your brown skin. And also because I’ve ruined it with hippopotamus spittle. The shirt, not you.”

“Carlos, I don’t care about the stupid shirt.” You snap.

Carlos tenses at your tone but you think he realizes it is not meant for him (well, not entirely him, anyway) because he furtively cups your face with his hands and asks, “You alright?”

You tilt your head to press a brief kiss to the inside of his palm, “No.”

“Did you do this to the apartment?”

“Yes,” you say as you kiss the inside of his wrist.

If Carlos is miffed with your one-worded answers he has the grace not to show it on his face. “Were you looking for something perhaps?”

Well, that was one way to put it. “Yes, I was.”

“Did you find it?”

Your hands tighten around his waist and you lift a hand up to his face, “Yes, I did.”

His eyes widen in realization. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry for being late but I got held up by these large hippos next to the Ralph’s and one of them ate the bag of groceries I was bringing home so I had to go back to purchase them again and then took the long route back and oh gosh, Cecil I didn’t know I’d worry you. Usually, you wouldn’t be so squirrely about this.”

“I do not get _squirrely_.” You say in indignation. 

Carlos frowns at you. “That’s not the point. The point is I’m covered in hippo-drool, sitting on the lap of a very jittery radio host when I could be taking a long hot shower. And then hopefully, after that, I could get started on that dinner I promised said radio host.”

“The radio host thinks the dinner and the shower can wait. Jeez Carlos, I come home expecting you to be here and when I found it very _scientist-free_ , I did not know what to think and do.”

“Well, for one you could have called.” He says as he ticks off his fingers, “And I come home late all the time, well not all the time but you get the point. There were a million times you arrived at the apartment before me and I’ve never seen you act like this before." 

“Well, it isn’t everyday your new manager subtly threatens you with the possible maiming of your boyfriend now is it?”

Carlos winces and bites his lip as if it was his fault. “They did?”

“Well,” you say as you drag him closer, “they might as well have.”

Carlos allows you to manhandle him and in what seems to be a stroke of thorough reflection says “Wow, jerks.” And then promptly sags against you.

That again, prompts a chuckle from your lips. “Understatement of the millennium.”

“Do you think I can get away with vandalizing one of their building walls and setting it on fire?”

That only gets him an unimpressed stare from you.

Carlos is undeterred. “Only a _little_ fire? Just enough so they can see the invisible pop art I can make writing “Punk-ass Jerks” in Times New Roman.”

“I don’t-“

“With lemon juice!”

“They’re a little sore about you foiling their little orange invasion so I don’t think they’re going to be particularly ecstatic with your lemon juice ploy and pyromaniac tendencies.”

“Even better!” You grins down at you.

You can’t help yourself. You grab his cheeks and squish them against his face so you don’t have to see the stupid endearing grin on his stupid handsome face. “You silly man.”

He giggles and half-heartedly swats at you.

The light-hearted moment passes and your treacherous mind reminds you that this is what you will eventually lose if you don’t do things right. And Carlos, the perceptive little shit, hones in on your change of mood right away.

He lifts a hand and tucks a lock of curly hair behind your ear. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” you say instead.

He snorts and wiggles in place. “Too bad. I’m pretty comfortable where I am.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re not getting off from there. _Ever_.”

“Well,” he says, “Perhaps not _that_ comfortable.”

He shucks out of his soiled labcoat and flings it over the couch. After that, he gets off your lap and you wince when the blood rushes back towards your legs, making them tingle unpleasantly. Carlos doesn’t let go of you however and in a few moments he has arranged the both of you in a more comfortable position with his back against the arm of the couch and with you between his legs, your back against his chest and both your legs sprawled along the length of the lumpy upholstery.

“Are you scared?” he asks eventually.

“Always, dear Carlos.”

“I am, too, you know.” He says as he plays with your fingers, “Every time you walk out that door for work I think: Will I get to see him again when the day is over? That only worsened after John Peters, you know.”

“Non- John Peters, you mean.”

“Right,” Carlos nods against your shoulder, “The point is, we can’t stop this, Cecil. We do not know what Strexcorp is planning but we do know that they aren’t… they don’t mean well. And with the way things are going, it’s only going to get worse from here as they get antsier.” His fingers tighten around yours.

“But I will promise you this: I’ll always be here, alright? And, if anything happens just know that I’ll always try my best to come back to you, if I can help it. However, you can’t expect me to stay put and watch as Strex pulls Night Vale down under and do nothing, even if that does allow me to get out of their radar for a while.”

“I know I can’t keep you here where I know you are safe, Carlos. Even if I wanted to and I don’t want to, just so we’re clear on that.”

Carlos only smiles. “I'm glad you understand. Night Vale has become home for me, Cecil. It’s important to me, just as how you are important to me." 

He kisses the side your temple and whispers, “I am a scientist and a scientist is always a fighter.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, resigned. “Just please be careful, my Carlos.”

“I will be as careful as you are, Cecil.”

“Good.”

A few minutes of silence pass between you before Carlos announces, “I’d very much like to have that shower now." 

“Hmmm.”

“You’re welcome to join me?” He says as he gives you a suggestive eyebrow wiggle you suspect he learned from Big Rico.

“A tempting proposition, Mr. Scientist.” You grin as he shuffles behind you.

“That’s Doctor to you, Mr. Palmer.”

“Oh, are we role-playing tonight?”

That gets you a face full of saliva-covered flannel and a laughing scientist bolting for the shower.

If you hold him a little tighter that night, he thankfully doesn’t say anything and just holds you tighter in return.


End file.
